


Sight for Sore Eyes

by lea_hazel



Category: Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Casual Sex, Community: dragonage_kink, Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M, Flirting, Grey Wardens, Off-Duty, Orlais, Vigil's Keep, culture clash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-04 23:37:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4157280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lea_hazel/pseuds/lea_hazel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mhairi is ambivalent about the Orlesian Warden-Commander. At first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sight for Sore Eyes

She did not know what she had expected.   
  
Mhairi had always admired the valor of the Grey Wardens. Even after Ostagar, she stubbornly defended the honor of that great order to anyone who would listen. Though she'd been present at the Landsmeet and fought in the Battle of Denerim, she had only glimpsed them from a distance. Until the funeral, that is. She hadn't known what to expect then, either. Surely not a little slip of a girl, frail as a sapling and no older than seventeen. The Hero of Ferelden had not been what anyone expected her to be, but she'd saved them all the same.   
  
It was a bitter thing to lose such a hero at such a young age. Sharper still was the realization of who had come to take her place. Ferelden's Wardens needed a commander, and the First Warden had obliged. Perhaps it was a punishment for the hostilities carried out against the Wardens during the Blight, though the ones responsible had long since paid for their crimes; perhaps he simply had a twisted sense of humor. Either way, it put Mhairi in a very uncomfortable position.   
  
There was no hiding it. His accent was thick as honey, and though he dressed as pragmatically as the finest Fereldan knight, his mannerisms held a hint of Orlesian refinement. One could easily imagine him attending the Imperial court in Val Royeaux, all silk cravats and overwrought manners, double dealing and deception. Any red-blooded Fereldan would immediately recognize him for what he was. If the Warden-Commander meant to gain the people's trust, he would certainly have his work cut out for him.   
  
Mhairi shook herself from her reverie just in time to see him approach her, an ogre of a man encased in shining silverite.   
  
"Ser Mhairi?" he asked, his voice mild but never hesitant.   
  
"I am," she replied, struggling to maintain equanimity. It would not do to appear overtly hostile, not to her future commander.   
  
"We have not been introduced, I'm afraid," he said, smiling disarmingly. "My name is Renard Caron. I'm a Grey Warden, and I understand you are meant to be accompanying me to Amaranthine."   
  
"Yes," she answered, feeling stiff and awkward.   
  
"You wish to become a Grey Warden yourself, I am made to understand."   
  
"Yes, Commander," she hastily corrected, cursing herself for the oversight.   
  
He did not seem fazed by the informality. Rather, he seemed pleased to have any recruits at all. Mhairi suddenly remembered that Ferelden wasn't the only kingdom that had turned out its Wardens during the long quiet centuries after the Fourth Blight. Wherever he had come from, he must have faced as many obstacles there as he expected to find here. She wondered whether she would have been so calmly self-possessed in his shoes.   
  
"When do we leave for Amaranthine, Commander?"   
  
"As soon as possible," he said. "I have no wish to dawdle. There is much work to be done."   
  
"Of course, Commander," she said. "I can be ready to leave at once."   
  
"Then we depart at first light."   
  
Her introduction to the future Commander of the Grey could have gone more smoothly, she felt.

***

It was impossible not to look at him. Disconcertingly so. All her life, Mhairi had prided herself on her ability to focus on her work. She considered a professional bearing to be paramount, and often disdained others whose conduct she deemed unbefitting. She herself could never behave in such an undignified manner. Her pride wouldn't allow it.   
  
Mhairi's pride had been taking quite a beating, lately. If she were to spend so many days alongside this man, she wished she didn't find him so... distracting. At least the Commander seemed wholly unaware of his effect on her. The journey to Vigil's Keep would take no more than a week, he assured her, but Mhairi was more concerned about the days that followed. Maker willing, she would become a Grey Warden and serve under this man's command. She could not allow this future to be compromised by any sort of indiscretion.   
  
...But there was no rule that said she couldn't  _look_. Surely that was harmless enough? Under her heavy helmet she felt safe enough tracking his movements with her eyes. The Commander -- Renard, he insisted she call him -- was not really a handsome man, not in the usual sense. He was not tall nor broad-shouldered. The power he put behind his heavy battleaxe came from a stockier, almost bulky figure. He was not young, but he carried his years well.   
  
Perhaps any form would sit well on such a self-assured man. Despite the cold reception he had been unfailingly polite and even charming to everyone they met. He must have known he would meet with resistance, not to say hostility, and prepared himself accordingly. Once or twice he remarked on it to her, although he didn't seem overly resentful.   
  
"The scars of the war seem still fresh, here," he said.   
  
"The older men have fought in the war," she replied, "and the younger were reared on their stories."   
  
He watched her thoughtfully and asked, "Your father fought in the war?"   
  
She nodded once.   
  
"You do not seem to hate me overmuch," he said, smiling broadly. "I shall take hope from that. Perhaps the soldiers of the Vigil shall learn to regard me as you do, Mhairi."   
  
Mhairi doubted that they would regard him in  _quite_  the same way. 

***

"What made you decide to become a Grey Warden?"   
  
Mhairi had expected this to be his first question. That he had failed to ask it for the first three days of their journey was baffling, to say the least.   
  
"Ah," he said delicately. "You mean, why did I choose to join the order at a time when most people considered it obsolete?"   
  
Mhairi balked. "No, I didn't mean--"   
  
He smiled. "It's quite all right, Mhairi," he said. "You are hardly the first to ask. It's true that the reputation of the Grey Wardens had suffered, in certain places more than others. Men have a shorter memory than history does. The Wardens and the Blight must have seemed to them no more than tall tales for impressionable children." He smiled again. "I was raised on such tales."   
  
She nodded. "As was I. One of the Chantry Mothers was fond of telling them to the children, when no one else was about."   
  
"Our history is closely tied to that of the Chantry, that is true," said Renard. "But in Montsimmard, where I come from, the tales of past Blights are as common as stories of the Black Fox. The Grey Wardens could never be forgotten there, not in four centuries or in twice that long."   
  
"So you always knew you meant to be a Warden?" she asked.   
  
"Not quite." His face grew serious. "It was all heroic tales and songs of valor when I was a child, but as a young man I knew I must weigh my options very carefully. You know, I suppose, that joining the Wardens is often fatal."   
  
Mhairi nodded once, sharply.   
  
Renard sighed. "Grey Wardens make many sacrifices. I never regretted the ones I made, not for a moment. Still, it was a difficult choice. My family -- my mother -- was not pleased with my decision."   
  
"Yet you would not take it back," said Mhairi.   
  
"Not for the world," he said and then laughed. "Such weighty subjects you wish to speak of. Couldn't you think of a more cheery question? My favorite cake perhaps?"   
  
Mhairi stammered awkwardly, lost for something to say.   
  
"Oh, I don't mind it very much," said Renard, "since the topic has obviously been on your mind. Let's have it then: what made you choose to become a Grey Warden?"   
  
"The obvious, I suppose," she said, catching her breath. "The Wardens sacrificed everything to save my homeland, even though..."   
  
"Even though they received no aid from the crown," he said, nodding his head gravely. "It's a thankless job sometimes, I won't lie."   
  
"I'm not looking for thanks," said Mhairi.   
  
"Well, whatever it is you  _are_  looking for with the Wardens, I hope you find it," he said.   
  
After a long, awkward silence she said, "It's almost time to break for the night."   
  
He glanced at the Western sky, his hand raised to block the slanting sun's light. "That it is. If you can find a likely site and pitch our tents, I'll find some wood for a fire."   
  
"Yes, Commander." She hesitated, but added, "We can talk about something... lighter, if you'd like."   
  
They worked quietly to set up the camp, but it was a companionable silence, much pleasanter than before. Mhairi could easily imagine a life such as this, hours filled with work and quiet camaraderie. When the shared silence ended abruptly she almost jumped out of her skin.   
  
"Peach torte."   
  
She looked up from the knot she was tying. "...What?"   
  
"My favorite cake," said Renard, "is a peach torte."   
  
She really had no idea what to say to that. 

***

In the end it was he who made the first move. She had thought about it, oh yes, more than once. At first it was an unwelcome intrusion, then an idle fancy. Later, when she knew he was interested, she started thinking about it more seriously. But before she could put her half-baked plan into action, he saved her the trouble by making an approach. And a good thing, too. Left to her own devices, Mhairi knew she might have continued debating the merits and flaws of her plan for the rest of their short shared journey.   
  
They were sitting by the fire after having set up camp just off the Pilgrim's Path. Mhairi was thinking to herself how glad she was that they could sit so, in companionable silence, with no awkwardness, no need to fill the emptiness with words. That was when she felt his hand on her arm. At the same moment as she turned her head towards him, he slid his hand up to lock behind her neck and she let him draw her in for a kiss.   
  
He drew back and smiled. "I had been meaning to do that for some days."   
  
"Renard," she said, and silently thanked the Maker that she hadn't lost her wits enough to call him ' _Commander_ '.   
  
"I hope I do not offer insult," he said.   
  
"No," said Mhairi, "no. It's only... How will this affect, um,  _things_?"   
  
He shook his head. "I see no reason why your conscription should be affected. One cannot be a Grey Warden for all hours of the day and night, Mhairi. Tonight, I am not needed as Warden. I can be something else."   
  
His hand was still clasping her neck. Mhairi let her eyes drift shut. In the darkness things seemed easier, clearer. When he kissed her a second time she leaned in, her hand on his chest, her fingers twining in the ties of his shirt. Out of armor he was less formal, less foreign, more familiar, and it was easy to smooth her hand over his chest, to grab the hem of his shirt and  _pull_. They disentangled and he sat back, waiting for her to come to him and finish the job.   
  
Before she completely lost her mind, she suggested, "This may be less uncomfortable inside the tent."   
  
He glanced back at the piled gravel that skittered off the crumbling road and laughed. "Indeed."   
  
In the warmth of the tent she resumed undressing him. She stripped off his shirt and pushed him down to the bedroll, straddling his hips in the process. She was pleased to hear the hitch in his breath and decided she would like to hear more of the same. When she reached for the fastenings on her own tunic, she untied them slowly, pulling one tie at a time until they hung open. Slowly, as slowly as her patience could stretch, she drew it over her head and cast it aside.   
  
"Come here," he said.   
  
And Mhairi obliged, leaning down to kiss him. She felt his hands drag down her back and back around again, cool against her heated skin. He kissed her throat and she swore she could hear her own heartbeat roaring in her ears like a summer thunderstorm. She moaned when he licked a path down to her breast, and when he flicked his tongue over the peaked nipple her fingers clenched, pulling at his damp, tangled hair.   
  
He yelped in surprise and she laughed.   
  
"I'm sorry," she said, "did I hurt you?"   
  
He pulled up, leaning on one elbow. "I might have expected something like this," he said.   
  
"Oh?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.   
  
"I was told Fereldans were hot-blooded," he explained. "Well,  _warned_ , more like."   
  
"Yet you chose not to heed the warning," said Mhairi.   
  
He shrugged, or something close to it. "I have no complaints."   
  
"You won't find reason to change your mind," she promised.   
  
She rose, but only enough to shuffle backwards until she was within easy reach of his stays. He was half-hard and panting softly, but she took her time pulling down his breeches, and paused to appreciate his rear. Once he was bare, she finally closed her fingers around the base of his cock and took the head into her mouth, sucking gently. Encouraged by his response, she increased her pace. His hips rose subtly from the bedroll before he forced them back down, and she clamped her hands over them as an added incentive. Slowly he hardened under her touch, and a thrum ran through her body like a drop of sweat, sparking down her spine and pooling in her cunt. 

"Ah! Maker, please! Let me-- Mhairi, I want to be inside you."   
  
Mhairi rocked back on her heels, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She smiled and tilted her head, said, "As you like."   
  
She had never gotten around to taking off the rest of her clothes. She did this now, efficiently, with no patience for a slow, teasing show. Straddling him again she slowly took his cock into her. She was wet, very wet. The stretch and burn set her blood racing, and she tipped her head back almost without noticing. She stayed very still for two, three heartbeats before she started moving, a slow rocking that made her spine shiver and her thighs burn.   
  
Renard groaned appreciatively at each wave of motion. "Oh, Maker,  _yes_! Yes, just like that."   
  
Mhairi felt drawn taut, heat coiling low in her belly, building more and more without ever really peaking. She braced her hands on his chest, leaning forward, and he stroked his hands over both her thighs. Suddenly she felt them clench into her flesh as with a single motion he flipped her on her back, under him. With her legs propped over his shoulders he began to drive into her, harder and faster than before. She couldn't help but cry out.   
  
"Touch me," she said breathlessly, grabbing his wrist and pulling.   
  
"I live to serve, milady," he said.   
  
She laughed, drawing his hand to her breast. He stroked and kneaded it, working his way slowly to the nipple. Mhairi closed her eyes and hummed, the coiling heat stoking deep inside her. He had only just brushed his thumb against her nipple when she threw her head back and came with a cry. But he went on, teasing her sensitized nipple until she moaned and panted, switching to the other one when her breath caught in her throat. All the while he was buried deep inside her, still moving in slower, more drawn out thrusts. Her skin burned with the contact in a dozen different places and it wasn't long before she climaxed again.   
  
" _Maker_!" she gasped. "It  _is_  true what they say!"   
  
He laughed. "I heard that bit of rumor was flying around again."   
  
He shifted, changing his angle until she squirmed and moaned raggedly, swearing a blue streak that would have given her fellow knights fits of apoplexy. His hands were clenched fists closed around her ankles. She watched from under half-lidded eyes as his movements became more erratic. At the last moment, when she was sure he was going over the edge, he pulled out and spilled on her belly. Then he crashed to the mattress beside her, breathing hard.   
  
Mhairi cleaned herself up with a spare blanket which she always kept handy, rolled it up and tucked it back into her pack. She dropped bonelessly onto the thin matress and said, "So?"   
  
He hummed noncommittally.   
  
"Is it true what they say about Grey Wardens," she asked, "or is this unique virtue all your own?"   
  
Renard threw his arm over her bare, sweat-slicked skin. "How vain would I sound if I claimed it was the latter?"   
  
She snorted.   
  
"A bit of both, then," he said, "if you like." 


End file.
